Silent II
by Bitter Red Irony
Summary: The second installment of the Silent Trilogy. The first time they kissed it was hidden under the shroud of darkness... HGDM


**Silent II**

The first time they kissed it was hidden under the shroud of darkness, her back pressed up against the cool unyielding stone of the corridor, his solid frame pressed up against hers and for the first time in her life, she felt as if she was coming home.

The first time she realised that they would never have a happily-ever-after, like in all the story books, was when he pulled away from that kiss his breath washing over her face and his slender hands still resting on the stone wall either side of her.

And in his eyes she saw sadness.

The first time they made love was in a hidden corridor off the main hall, she remembered her laboured breath bouncing off stone and tapestries and echoing in her ears. She remembers the feel of him lying above her and his nimble hands running across her body.

She remembered that in the heat of passion he would take out the red ribbon she had started to wear in her hair and she would in return remove the black ribbon that tied his hair back and watch as his hair fell around them, shielding their faces like a curtain of silver silk. The ribbons would wind themselves around their arms; a splash of red and black against ivory and white skins.

Years later it would make Hermione feel ill when Ron would clumsily pull the ribbon from her hair and toss it aside as a curtain of corse red would fall in her face

The first time they had coffee together was months after they started their secret affair. They sat in the nearly empty kitchen two hours past midnight and remained silent.

The next time they shared coffee late at night in the kitchen, she spilt her coffee on the tiled floor as he pulled her into a kiss. She told him she wanted to see the world.

It soon became more about the company they gave each, a reassuring presence and a feeling of safety, instead of just the sex like it was in the beginning. They both knew they could never just forget what they shared. They spoke of the world, of what they wanted to do, to be, to see. But they both knew it was only fantasy.

The last time they drank coffee together in the cosy, secluded corner of the Hogwarts kitchen Draco told her he wouldn't switch sides for her. He wouldn't go against his family. And in that moment, that single moment the Malfoy family ring shone more brilliantly in Hermione's mind then it ever had before. It glowed in harsh green; an everlasting symbol of his family, of everything that held them apart.

Hermione didn't cry, she nodded mutely and stared into her coffee watching the luke-warm liquid ripple around the edges of the cup. All she said was 'I know'

That was the last time they spoke about themselves over coffee.

For the rest of her life, every time Hermione drank smooth, warm coffee, or smelt ground coffee beans she thought of pale smooth skin and flashing eyes, a deep chuckle -like a rumble in his chest. And a cool tilt of the lips, she remembered the feel of his presence against her back as he held her and ghost like hands across her skin.

The first time they drank coffee in the booth next to the window in a small café, was the day of her wedding. Afterwards as she entered the chapel in a hurry to the anxious looks of her family and friends she remembered Draco's stony, pale face and his whispered words of 'Is this what you want?' as she ignored their comments on how late she was and their constant questions of 'where had she been' she realised, no it wasn't.

Ron commented on the taste of coffee on her lips after the ceremony, he said he wished she had had a mint or something; he hated the taste of coffee.

The next day as they sat in the same spot next to the window, he looked at her ring, and she knew what he thought because she thought it too. This wasn't the life she wanted to live; she had wanted freedom, to see the world and to live everyday of her life as though it was her last. But instead she got a ball and chain masked in Gryffindor colours.

As the years went on they continued to meet each morning, and it slowly became a ritual for them. Ron sometimes asked where she went each morning, she had always lied and said nowhere special just for a coffee with an old friend, he asked if he could come one day 'I thought you didn't like coffee' she would say and he would nod and not mention it again for a while.

Sometimes when she looks into his eyes she thinks he knows, she thinks she sees the truth in his eyes. But he never said a thing and neither did she.

She wondered once why she and Draco never really spoke over their coffees like normal customers. Her first thought had been that they couldn't talk about anything, the war took up too much of their lives and they couldn't discuss that. That would be treason to both sides.

Then she realised that they had said all they needed to say, and to say it all again would demean it. Cheapen what they had.

Draco once said words could be miss-leading and manipulative, she wondered if that was perhaps why he said all he wanted to say with his body and gestures, and very few words.

Hermione always liked words, she thought they were beautiful, she loved the written word, the rhythmic words of songs and poems and she loved Draco's softly spoken words said against the shell of her ear in a husky raw voice.

Draco always had a way with the few words he used. And it saddens her when Ron tripped and fumbled over his clumsy sentences. She thinks Harry might have known, thinks he might have realised that she wasn't as in love with Ron, as Ron was with her. But he never said anything, he was like that -he didn't like words, or maybe he just wasn't use to them.

Draco slowly became colder as he grew older, his mask was closer to flawless although Hermione could still see through the few cracks that remained, she still saw him for what he truly was. They were an odd pair, Hermione thought one morning while she waited for Draco to appear, he was jaded and cold and he wore it on his face he used it to intimidate and frighten those lesser then himself, in pursuit for the power the Malfoy name demanded of him. while she chose to hide her own resentments under a façade of being happy, she was becoming more jaded, beaten down by the war and her marriage, she knew he saw the light in her eyes slowly fading.

They often ignored the rest of the world; sometimes they could almost pretend that the world outside their secluded booth didn't exist. Until a brutal reminder comes and it all crashes down on top of her, harsh and glaring like day.

The Dark Mark.

Painted into his arm as though drawn with silk imbedded into his skin, although Hermione knew that that mark wasn't just marring his skin, it was forged into Draco's very soul.

She didn't want to look at it, the black lines swirled and bled together in the shape of a hideous skull, and an errant though in the back of her mind wondered why it had to be so grotesque, Draco's body was too beautiful to have such a mark mar it.

Hermione only saw it for a second; he pulled his sleeve down far enough to cover it –just. She couldn't look at him, she felt foolish about her childish behaviour of 'if I can't see it maybe its not really there' Draco caught her eye eventually though and she wanted to cry, to break down and tell him to get rid of it. She wanted him to hold her and tell her it's all going to be alright.

But she knew it wasn't, nothing was ever going to be alright again.

That feeling kept growing inside her, every fight she had with Ron, every meeting with the order, every time a new report of a death eater attack came in. The feeling intensified, she found herself often lying awake at night thinking up obscure plans on how she and Draco could run away. Though in the light of day each seemed crazier then the last.

She didn't want to cry, she hated it but eventually it was too hard to sit in silence and all her pent up emotions came out and she buried her face in her hands wanting the world to freeze exactly how it was, her and Draco together in safety.

As Draco pulled her hands down onto the table top and kissed away the dampness of her salt hot tears from each of her fingertips and eventually her palm she let out a strangled sob.

"When this war is over we'll get away, we'll run away to Russia or Paris. "you'd like Russia, all that history and beauty…" he talked of fantasies and deep in their hearts they both knew that, though as the tears slowly subsided it felt nice, and a place in her heart felt warm again.

"We could open a coffee shop, we'd be our best costumers" he smiled at that, his eyes glowed with want and then they returned to silence before he stood to leave letting his hand linger on hers a second more.

That was the first time they had touched each other since they left Hogwarts.

Her wedding ring left a light tan line around her ring finger she noticed it the day of The Great Battle. That's what people called it, the twins started referring to the final battle that way, at first it annoyed everyone but eventually they all adopted it either subconsciously or intentionally.

They were sitting in what could have been the very last order meeting, tensions were running high and a heated discussion about tactics was under way, but all Hermione could do was stare absently at her ring finger.

In some sick way it made her happy that her ring was missing, maybe it was some left over cruelty that remained through all the years of war, or maybe it was her rebellious side coming out. But what ever it was all she could think about was how she was going into battle loyal to Draco, not her farce of a marriage.

The battle was almost scripted, Hermione thought absently as she lay dying. Voldmort had made an entrance and Harry fought valiantly like they knew he would.

A violet blast had hit her from behind, she turned to see her attacker but all she saw was a skull mask and a black robe. She thought of Draco, was he out there somewhere? How many people had he killed? How many people had _she_ killed? Who was going to win?

Ron noticed it was missing as she lay dying in his arms, he held her and whispered 'I know' whether he was talking about her ring missing, or draco and her relationship, or even the failure that was their marriage she never knew. He gently removed the ribbon from her hair laying it on the ground some distance away and sat with her as she died, gently combing his fingers through her hair.

It was a gesture of friendship and comfort, not of love. Because they both knew she was never really his wife.

She thought of Draco, wished he would kiss her on the hand and whisper sweet nothings in her ear, wished she was sitting in their booth in the warm coffee shop instead of on the burned ground surrounded by dead comrades and foes.

'…_we'll get away, we'll run away to Russia or Paris… we'd live together, away from all this …we could drink coffee on our balcony…' _Hermione let out a quick sob; she wanted it, she wanting it so much. But it would never happen.

**A/N **There's the second part of the 'Silent Trilogy' the third instalment will come… eventually.  
Sorry about the delay.

Please Read & Review.


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